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Mages don't do a lot of running, overall. In Kiraleen's own life that had proven true.

Until now.

"The corn is ready!" Lomani held up an ear of green corn she'd received from Jayka, Sunrock Retreat's innkeeper. The tauren grouped in front of Lomani echoed her cry. Kiraleen took the opportunity to sneak a quick drink from her water skin and wonder when her bones had turned to rubber. Possibly back at Hunter's Hill.

In all honesty, she was surprised she had lasted past the Mulgore gate. She had done some training in the days before the run -- laps around the pond -- but nothing could have prepared her for this.

Running from Thunder Bluff to every tauren camp and village in Kalimdor. In one night. The tauren said the Earth Mother blessed them with the speed and stamina necessary. Perhaps The Earth Mother had taken pity and extended Her blessing to a pair of too-skinny, twig-limbed elves. Tylissius had sent his nephew, Kelvim, to join the Green Corn Run.

And a troll. Rasji flirted with every female in their group between boasts about his endurance. As the run went on, those boasts turned into proclamations of admiration for tauren.

From Sunrock to Ghostwalker Post in Desolace. By this time, blessing or no, tauren of the Horns of Shuhalo and the Thunderhooves alike were wiping away sweat and peeling off tabards in attempts to cool off. During this last stretch Kiraleen had sent blasts of cold air above the runner's heads and at their feet; the magic helped some, but not much.

From Ghostwalker to Camp Mojache. Dakini, one of the Thunderhooves, rumbled a warning as they passed the Twin Colossals. "Alliance overhead." They grouped tighter together; regardless, two of their number proved too-tempting targets as they crossed the Verdantis River. Aovi and Lomani tended their wounds while Dakini and the others provided cover.

At last they reached Camp Mojache. "I'm going to need a very hot bath," Kiraleen said to no one in particular. That drew chuckles. Lomani accepted the ear of green corn and the cry of "The corn is ready!" went up again, along with "FOR THE HERD!" Kiraleen added her own voice this time.

They were allowed to fly back to Thunder Bluff. Kiraleen spent the ride (again, seemingly blessed by the Earth Mother, because it took the merest fraction of the time it normally did) thinking of ways to counter Thaldis' arguments on why she shouldn't have gone. He was technically still her bodyguard, even when not in Silvermoon for the Season; she understood his concern. And participating was a rash act; she couldn't deny it.

But Kerala had extended the invitation to her. Even after years living at Thunder Bluff -- of such defending the city and its people -- welcomes to tauren ceremonies were rare. She could not have refused.

Somehow Kiraleen made her way from the wyvern's perch to the Spirit Rise. Her personal tent shimmered in the moonslight , her personal sanctuary. Ja'he and Goldsworth sat outside, waiting. "Field Marshal!" Goldsworth said with a grin. "You made it! And you still have your legs!"

The squall over Booty Bay had passed on, leaving palm fronds scattered about the docks and puddles of water in places the drain systems had failed to operate. The passing storm also brought with it humidity, which at this time of summer, was oppressive to say the least - sending most scurrying for whatever shade could be found.

Denton Jones sat as his desk and shuffled papers around. One small piece he moved to the "in" box, before changing his mind and moving it to the "out" box. Neither box had anything in it of note. Bills, mainly; Unopened for the most part - as per Commander Wilkes.

To say he was bored was an understatement, but there was nothing he could do about it, really. If there was no business, how could he be busy? Something else tickled the back of his mind regarding the lack of business, though it was just out of reach - like an itch in the small of your back that is just off the fingertips.

Using a palm frond, Jones waved it back and forth in front of his face in an attempt to cool himself. Not the most efficient method, it did manage to make him feel better; which was something.

One thing Jones knew about hot and humid days was that it made sailors grumpy - especially those with nothing to do. And when NO ONE had anything to do, well anything could happen. The warehouse was empty, the dockworkers were slack. Even Captain Stealjaw had seen the way of things and sailed off, saying he was going exploring around the outer edges of Pandaria and would be back in a month or so.

It had been three.

So, when the front door to the Company office of the TwinSeas Trading Company was thrown open by a band of nefarious-looking sailors, Shipping Clerk Denton Jones was not shocked. Surprised, maybe (that it had taken this long), but not shocked.

"Gentlemen," Jones said, opening his arms as he leaned back in his chair. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh leave off, Jonsie!" one of the sailors said - a large, burly man with no shirt, no shoes and a red bandana tied around his forehead. "We ain't here ta see you, now. We want ta see Mister WIlkes, we do."

"Ah, you mean COMMANDER Wilkes?" Jones said, crossing his arms across his chest. Best to play it cool, he thought. Lest he end up with a sliced throat.

"Yea," another sailor leered. "Commandah Wilkes. That be the one, it do." He leaned close. "Where he be, Jonsie? And don't give me no lip, neithah!"

"Ah, yes," Jones said. "No lip. Right. Well, Commander Wilkes is indisposed at the moment. Away on business, in fact - sealing new contracts with Darnassus." Jones shrugged and reached for one of the pieces of paper he had been shuffling. Might as well look official.

He looked up at the large sailor, who reeked of rum now that Jones got a good whiff. Not good, he thought. "Perhaps I can help you after all?"

"Away, is he?" the sailor said, looking toward the stairs behind Jones. "Maybe I best go take a look for me ownself, see?"

"Now wait a minute," Jones said, moving to stand. "I said Commander." A massive paw of a hand slammed him back into his chair with a thump.

"No Lip!" the sailor said, one hand on Jones as he turned to face his ship mates. "Watch him and make sure he don't call for no guards."

At that moment, the door flew open again - banging hard against the wood siding. Goblin Bruisers, Jones saw and he sighed with relief. "It's about time you showed up," Jones said, grinning at the sailor who was as shocked as Jones was.

"Yea," another Goblin said, this one following the pair of Bruisers. "I shoulda showed up weeks ago kid. But tha boss said ta give ya more time see?" Jones frowned, looked at the sailor, then back to the Goblin.

"Pardon me?" Jones said. "More time for what?"

"Ta pays ya rent," the Goblin said. "I'm heah to collects, see? Seein youz was a good custamah an all, we gaves ya extra time ta get ya finances in order. Now? Times up, pal. Tha boss wants his doah." A diamond-tipped cane slammed down on the desk, pushing the sailor away from Jones so the Goblin could see the clerk face to face.

"Ya gots the money or don'tcha?" the Goblin said, twisting the cane back and forth, allowing the large diamond to glimmer in the window-provided sunlight.

"Look," Jones said, his gaze snapping between the Goblin and the sailors. "I'm just a clerk here! I don't deal with that sort of thing." He gulped. "You need to take it up with Commander WIlkes."

The Goblin chuckled. "Wilkes is it?" he said. "What happened to tha Commadore? He go and get himself sunk an all? Don't matter anyways, we gots ways of gettin our dough, see?" The cane tucked under Jones's chin and lifted it - pushing the young clerk's head back against the wall.

"Way I see it," the Goblin said. "You're the only rankin officer around, see?" The tip of the staff pushed harder against Jones's throat. "You give me what I want or I'll just have ta take it." The Goblin frowned and pushed harder, cutting off the air to Jones, causing his head to go light and fuzzy.

Suddenly, the Goblin pulled the cane away, allowing Jones to grab his throat.

"Look, pal," he said. "Wez all friend heah, right?" The Goblin looked around at all of the gathered sailors. They were hanging back against the wall and allowing Jones to take the brunt of the conversation. There was one thing everyone knew about Goblin towns: You never messed with them. Ever.

"Right?" the Goblin asked the closest sailor. The burly man nodded, shying away from the fierce Goblin. "Right!" the sailors said as one. The Goblin grinned and looked back to Jones - his voice suddenly sounding very serious as he slowed his speech.

"So why don't you take me upstairs to where Jarington keeps his keys so we can gets this little bidness all settled?" He smiled, cocking his head at Jones. "Right?"

Jones paused, gulped and looked at the sailors - noting they were as scared as he was. The cane slammed on his desk again, this time cracking the wood and leaving an indention in the desk.

"NOW!" the Goblin screamed, baring his fangs. The Bruisers leaped forward, lifted Jones by the shoulders and tossed him toward the stairs. The Goblin collections agent chuckled, then turned toward the sailors.

"What about the TwinSeas?" a bold sailer said, earning looks from his mates. "They owe us pay!" A few nodded, but chose to remain silent. The Goblin cackled, throwing his head back and letting loose with a howl.

"TwinSeas?" he said, taking a deep breath after laughing so hard. "They ain't no TwinSeas, pal! Not in this town, there ain't. Not no more. Boss owns it now."

"So, yeh think they'll do it?" The speaker was short, burly and covered by a mass of luxurious red-gold hair. His mustache moved in sensuous undulations as he chewed noisily on a turkey leg. They were at one of the nicer establishments in Booty Bay, which meant that they probably didn't empty the trash right outside their door. (It might be fair to speculate that they didn't empty their trash at all.)

The woman across from him giggled coyly, her sapphire eyes dancing. "Oh, they'll do anything I want, given enough time. I'm very persuasive."

Fagerboozle winked slyly as he pointed the turkey leg at his guest. "I've 'eard that about yeh! Which is why I wanted to get you in on this wee little project of mine." The 'wee little project' in question was a new brothel he was intending to open soon -- Whorelords of Draenor. He was predicting that the shattered planet was going to be the next big tourist landing within the next few months. At least, he hoped it was. Real estate was dirt cheap there, and there were plenty of vagrants who needed work. Cheap land. Cheap labor. Cheap everything! It was a cheapskate's cheapest dream!

Another coy chuckle. "Well, I'm flattered you thought of me!"

More mustache undulations and turkey leg. "Well, yeh know what they say about flattery -- it gets you everywhere, don't it?" Fagerboozle paused long enough to gulp some vinegar-like wine. "So, ah... I may have another project you'd like to get your associates to participate in...."

The dwarf's guest looked curious. "Oh? Do tell!"

"Well, y'know how I'm famous for my cinematic body of work...?" His guest nodded. "So, I've been approached with a script for The Blood Runs Hot In Hellfire, an' I was thinking it might be a nice, little departure from my Gnomes Gone Wild series. Yeh know... more of an 'art film'...."

Sapphire eyes lit with delight. "Ohhh, I'm sure they'd LOVE to!" The woman smiled, reaching across the stained tablecloth to touch the dwarf's hairy paw. "But first, I'd like to discuss the business terms a little. Tell me more about this '401k'...."

Dinpik did – enough to send her tottering back a few steps when the taffy finally snapped. Katelle laughed. Dinpik shrugged with a rueful grin and reached for a wrapper. Making last-minute candy for the Hallows’ End Festival had been her idea; making the peanut butter chews and molassess taffy at Katelle’s house had been Katelle’s. Dinpik suspected the Twilight Empire’s General wanted a distraction – any distraction – from recent troubles.

So Dinpik had gathered up the ingredients, measuring spoons and bowls, and shown up some hours ago.

“Good snap, Miss Katelle.” Emi twisted the wrapper ends of the last peanut butter chew closed and dropped it in the bag with its fellows. When she heard about the candy-making he night elf had offered to help. To Dinpik’s surprise, Katelle had agreed. “You ready for that massage?”

“And I’m done wrapping these puppies.” Brewbies, Katelle’s live-in nurse during her difficult pregnancy, flourished a celophaned barley-and-honey pumpkin-shaped sucker in their direction. “Where did you find time to make all this?”

“Didn’t.” Dinpik fumbled with the orange paper slips for the molasses taffy. “Friends in Sylvanaar sent them to me. They went a little overboard, Rina said.”

Katelle raised an eyebrow, looking around at the bowls filled with candy. “I can’t imagine how that could have happened.”

Dinpik blew a raspberry at her. Katelle laughed again, the laughter segueing to a little sigh as Emi began kneading her shoulders. “You keep this up, Emicrania, and I’ll turn into butter.”

Emi giggled. “We could pour you over the popcorn balls, Miss Katelle!”

Dinpik fussed with the candy wrappers. “Well…a Westfall farmer was selling the popcorn..and the orphanage matrons were asking for something special for the kids…” She gestured aimlessly. “So I’m making popcorn balls in a couple days.”

Dinpik tossed a smile over her shoulder at Emi. "Thanks! Just dump it in the cauldron to my left.

The druid obliged, leaving Dinpik free to open more vials of food coloring. Black and orange had disappeared quickly, as she had expected. Miranda and another girl (who was at least pretending to be friendly, Dinpik observed) were mixing the blue into a separate bowl clumsily with wooden spoons. Red, yellow and green popcorn balls were in progress as well. The cellophane wrapping train, slowed down while waiting, started nibbling their subjects.

She hadn't planned on asking Emicrania's help, but as with the candy-making at Katelle's, the night elf had overheard and asked if she could come, too. Dinpik was glad she had agreed. Not only for Emi's company and extra pair of hands and the suggestion of scooping out the popped corn into individual bowls for each color, but she gladly entertained the younger orphans at times by turning into a cat, herding them away from the hot pans and burners, and letting them groom her.

Down to black and orange ribbons.

"More syrup," the Matron announced. The children parted like waves out of respect for the steaming hot pan she carried in oversized mitts. She poured it slowly, cautioning one of the older kids, a girl of about twelve, to be careful with the stirring.

"I smell apples," Emi said suddenly. "D'you think we could make caramel apples? I brought the caramels!"

Dinpik looked at the Matron. "Umm..."

The woman side-eyed Emi, then sighed in resignation. "All right, all right. Let me see if we have any pans left, first." The woman hurried off.

Emi grinned. "Good! Caramel's easier to get out of fur than corn syrup."

Another coughing fit insisted on its urgency. This one too was suppressed, but was persistent in its demands. A punctured lung will do that. All in all, he had been luckier than many at the last stand on the Southfury. The wound had not been healed properly, whether by design or not. The cooler days and sharp gusts along the bluffs seemed to aggravate the problem.

His eyes scanned over the notice, deciphering the runes. He kept a blank, stone face, despite a tugging sneer.

"The 37th Infantry and their commanding officer Konro “Stormreaver” has been declared an enemy of the Horde by Warchief Vol’jin. Wanted for conspiring Warchief Vol’jin and Baine Bloodhoof’s death, aiding Garrosh Hellscream’s supporters in the Barrens, the deaths of over fifty members of the Horde and the disappearance of thirty prisoners of war.Wanted Dead."

Well, well, well. So 'da revolutionary' had a little problem with sedition. That happens. Gravy for boars is gravy for sows too. Whatever the 37th Infantry had done or failed to do, it had drawn the hostile eye of Grommash Hold. This might be worth some inquiry. Fellow travelers, perhaps. Or maybe mere renegades.

He glanced around. He was alone in the crowd, as people focused on their own tasks and thoughts. He turned and faced away from the bulletin board, assuming a casual at ease, hands behind his back.

Communications - fast, timely and accurate - were vital to governments as well as the military. This notice would be posted in other areas as well, in order to locate and neutralize the threat as efficiently as possible.

But this was the one by him.

The coughing fit welled up again and this time he yielded to it, wet wracking coughs shaking his torso. He coughed up copious phlegm and old, black blood. While bent, he reached with the hands behind his back and jerked the notice off the board.

He brought the now crumpled paper around and spat into it as he straightened.

One or two passersby noticed his coughing. He snorted, loud and liquid, and spat again, folding the paper over the product and wadding it up. "Old war wound. Orgrimmar, you know." He smiled at them. They smiled back while averting their eyes and murmuring vague thanks for his service.

"If you only knew..."

After they passed and were lost to sight, he too walked off. The urgent bounty notice he flicked into a nearby brazier, where it crackled, blackened, and collapsed in on itself as grey ash.

These were the words Brewdin remembered hearing after narrowly escaping the Horde’s ruthless advance through Loch Modan in the second war.

These were the words he’d heard again after the opening of the flood vents had plunged Gnomeregan into chaos.

These were the words he had to repeat to captain Pikegrinder in the wake of what had been referred to by some as Ironforge’s ‘Day of Death.’

The scene was gruesomely familiar. Chaos had erupted all throughout the city. People choked on the toxic fumes pouring from un-regulated ventilation and filtration systems, they cried out as autopilot systems failed and flung them into walls of stone or the molten flows of the Great Forge. These were fates no more horrible than the clockwork tigers would have wrought if only he had just left them alone; Or if only Captain Ronae’Serrar had never assigned him to work on that equipment in the barracks; Or if only he’d just stuck to repairing broken equipment instead of trying to learn how to craft new inventions.

If only, none of this would have happened.

If only, all of this wouldn’t be his fault.

Explosions rocked the great halls of the city and fires burned around him as Brewdin marched with grim purpose toward the first of the crates they’d found. When he arrived, he grabbed his shotgun from his back, turned the dial on its side to 2, shoved it into the side of the crate and pulled the trigger. Buckshot tore through the wood and rendered the transmitter inside utterly unserviceable. After doing the same with the signal destroyer, he moved on and repeated this action at the other four locations throughout the city.

Once he had finished, so too had the chaos. Most of the devices that could cause further harm had been shut off or contained and Ironforge guards and other emergency responders had begun rescue and cleanup operations.

When he finally caught up to Brewdin, captain Pikegrinder was understandably furious. For the massacre he had been more or less the sole cause of, Brewdin’s future was laid out for him: tomorrow he would start doing hard labor in the deepest mines of the city for the rest of his days, or he would be in battle with the Iron Horde as a conscript. The second option wasn’t a problem. It was obvious to the failed engineer now anyway:

Goldsworth prodded the logs in the guild tent’s fire pit with a poker, evoking a small shower of sparks. “They seem much in thought with us,” the mage said. “I felt truly honored to meet them.”

Meia nodded, adjusting her fur shawl. Thunder Bluff’s weather was nowhere near as severe as Winterspring’s, and the guild tent’s central room had enough furs, cushions and blankets to warm their full roster, but she still felt chilled. Everlook’s inn had solid walls.. She mentally added a note to the Field Marshal’s to-do list: check tent for repairs.

"And you, Hawke?"

The paladin's expression shaded into... displeasure? ... briefly before returning to its usual one of practiced charm. "A little zealous, I think. Not that that's a bad thing," he hastened to add, "in its place." He turned his mug of mulled cider in his hands. "And perhaps a little... unmannerly."

"Mmm." Meia caught Goldsworth's glance across the fire; the mage rolled her eyes. Meia winked back. She'd noticed even in her very short time in Hawke's company he placed a high value on social niceties. The orc death knight may have rubbed him the wrong way. "Can't blame them for being a little cautious. We were strangers with very unpopular opinions about the Alliance meeting in public. We got along well in the Filthy Animal." She winked again at Goldsworth. "Eventually."

Goldsworth groaned and shook her head. "I have no how that mistcast portal happened!"

"Don't berate yourself," Hawke said soothingly. "The next one worked splendidly."

Goldsworth sighed. "I suppose."

Meia laughed. "Don't worry. I'll leave that out of my report." Kiraleen would be pleased -- no, ecstatic -- to hear the Outriders weren't entirely alone in their desire for peaceable relations with Alliance. The message would go out in an hour or so -- the sooner Kiraleen got it, the sooner she could set in motion the communication necessary for a meeting between Sanctuary and the Twilight Empire.

Hawke cleared his throat. "Would you perhaps be willing to ... ah... inquire if fishing be removed from my assignment?"

High in the snow covered mountains of Dun Morogh, Sisanej carries two arms full of sticks to a campfire she constantly maintains just outside of her small, one person tent.She takes a deep breath through her nose and exhales it slowly watching the breath leave her mouth like a thick cloud of smoke. “It is going to be a cold night, I may need more wo-” Her thought is interrupted when she notices a dwarven rider atop a battle ram, quickly making his way up the steep mountain to her campsite. The battle ram is hopping through the deep snow at an alarmingly fast pace.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” Sisa drops the bundles of sticks and steps towards her tent for a weapon, then thinks better of it, deciding rather, to run for her worg hidden among the thick frozen brush near her remote campsite.

The rider cuts Sisa off half way to the brush. She comes to an abrupt halt and stands perfectly still. Time seems to have frozen for Sisanej, even the snow appears to have stopped mid fall. She hasn’t a single weapon and wears only a simple fur lined outfit. The Dwarf enjoys the moment, circling her atop his ram grinning mischievously. He grips reins in one hand and clutches a large battle axe, resting on his shoulder, in the other.

Sisa shouts at the dwarf “If you are not going to use that axe, give it to me, and I will.”

The Dwarf laughs hardily “I didn’ come all th’way up this mountain ta kills ye, lass. I were jus given a message fer ya.”

Frazzled now, She holds her palms up at her sides “What message?!”

The Dwarf adjusts himself, sitting higher and straighter in the saddle, trying his best to look official-like, before handing her a rolled parchment.

Sisa cautiously takes the parchment from the dwarves hand. As the parchment leaves his finger tips he jerks tightly on the ram’s reins causing it to rear up and knock Sisanej into the snow. Sisanej averts all of her attention to the parchment, ignoring the dwarves crude action completely. She stares blankly at the parchment as she lays on her back in the snow.

The dwarf bellows in an offended tone “Ye aint got no fight in-ya! It probly be a letter from yer fadder tellin ye that he be ashamed of ya!” The dwarf shakes his head disappointingly as he nudges the ram’s sides with his heels “Lets be leavin this green one to her readin.”

She unrolls the scroll and begins to read:

“Sisanej,

A new threat has fallen on Azeroth. All able bodied horde are needed in the Blasted Lands. I am told you have retired yourself to Dun Morogh, once more. This is good for one reason; you are close to the Horde's new objective. Your armor and weapons await you near the entrance of the dark portal. I strongly suggest you put them on before entering it.

Your former Sergeant in the 1st legion -Bloodhowl

On last thing. Under no circumstances are you to kill or maim the messenger, he is an old friend.”

Sisa rolls over onto her chest, setting the scroll down in the snow next to her. She watches the Dwarven rider travel effortlessly down the snow blanketed mountain until he is out of sight...“Damn.”

Understanding always came more slowly than knowledge, but in recent weeks the spirits around Oshu'gun had become more enlightened about the events churning beyond the portal. As always the wizened shaman listened with an open heart, and what he was hearing was enough to make the bravest souls tremble, yet Chander Stormheart was smirking. “Heh.”

“What's so funny uncle?” The gruff voice came out of the shadows nearby, but unlike before Cha'reth's voice carried no trace of bitterness. The girl was starting to come into her own at last, and though she still embraced the shadows very little darkness remained in her heart. Truly she had become his namesake.

“When I led our family here nearly a year ago it was to live in disgraced exile. It seems that everything we know was never really meant to be.” Chander looked up as the rogue drew closer, and his smile turned warm. “You remember the power of the bronze dragonflight, an' how they flitted in an' out of timeways?”

“So what? They have little regard for Outland, and they're not even immortal anymore.”

“What if everything we've ever known was false? If the timeline which led to our people being enslaved was never the true path, than the land we've chosen fer our exile is jus' as dishonoured as we are.”

Cha'reth's mouth fell open for several seconds, and then she began to giggle. The pair laughed at the twisted fate they had been given, for in some obscure way being outcast on a broken world lost in the sands of time suited them well. Neither Orc had ever claimed to be completely sane anyhow.

Eventually the pair settled down and returned to their meditation. Chander had been pleased when his niece showed some interest in mastering her mind, and she was good company for him during his prolonged periods of fasting. He had found the answers he sought when entering the sacred mountain, but the shaman remained as he sensed the approach of another: one who would also need his insights.

Taking a deep breath he closed his eyes, and keeping his senses open Chander waited. His spine tingled at the approach of a third Orc, but he held himself in check until the very last moment. A shadow loomed behind him, and as it lunged he embraced the spirit of the worg. The shadow passed through him, and he voiced a playful yip before pouncing on the intruder's chest. The Orc squirmed under him, but he assailed her with a barrage of licks. “Ew, come on Unc stop it!!!”

Barking a laugh he leaped to the side and shifted back to his natural form. “Of all the Orcs ta pass through the Twistin' Nether did ya really think you could surprise me Kil'reth?”

“Zug-zug,” she admitted honestly while wiping the slobber from her face. Her twin was doubled up with laughter, and she shot Cha'reth a scathing look. “You'll cut that out when I give my latest report on Azeroth. I had to hire a mage to get back here, because the Dark Portal's changed. Now it leads to a new Draenor, and there's a lot of action going on around there.”

“The spirits have already hinted as much. It seems Azeroth is caught up in a whole new conflict,” Chander said thoughtfully.

“Right, so when do we pack up and leave?” Kil'reth asked.

“We don't.”

“We don't?” the twins gasped as one, and Kil'reth glared at the two of them. “But the Horde will need us, and this could be the chance to reclaim our people's real home!”

“Through my dishonour our family is outcast, and we live on an outcast land,” Chander growled with more than a trace of anger. “I was second in command of the finest Clan our people have known since they cast off the chains of slavery, and I don't need to know their fate to grasp the fact that I have failed them all.”

“But maybe we could regain our honour. Maybe there is hope for all who once wore the standard of Bloo...”

“Don't you insult me and tell me to be silent! I swear I'll rip your tongue out and wear it as a belt,” Kil'reth retorted angrily.

“If you two wanna play Warsong an' declare a mak'rogahn do me a favour? Save it fer after I've broken my fast, because I'm not gonna mend either of ya right now.” The twins fell silent, and Chander took his time in getting to his feet; it lent him a few extra moments to regain his composure. “I'm the head of this family, an' I say we remain in Outland until the spirits compel me ta say otherwise, understood?”

“Dabu,” they answered in unison.

“Swobu. Cha'reth run back ta the cave an' help yer grandma prepare a roast. As fer you go find Luuhk, an' see if ya can't beat him up fer teachin' yer sister such language.”

“Zug-zug.” As they jogged toward the exit the sisters shoved at one another, but it was all in good fun. Their uncle's decision to exile the family had many hidden benefits, not the least of which was the strengthening of their bond.

Looking into a crystal Chander saw the flash of a familiar face, and smiled sadly. “Well sis it looks like we get a bit more time ta jus' be a family.”